


Following The Sun

by ashford2ashford



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Dark, F/M, Harsh Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Vomiting, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: Solaire of Astora swears there was an older son of Gywn. After many years working in a tavern in the slums of Astora, he dreams of sunlight...
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	1. Fond Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternative story to Solaire's path in Dark Souls. I'm very much a fan of the idea that Solaire worked his way up by himself to become the knight he is in game. This has a very slow build up to the game as I wanted to do a bit of world building in story. 
> 
> As mentioned, there are some non-con warnings for future chapters, but I'll mark these parts as and when they occur so it does not ruin the reading for people who do not want that content.

It's the day before the founder's festival and, of course, the tavern is packed. Both patrons and the staff seem to be engaged in lively conversation. Stacks of food are being hurried out of the kitchen, plates clattering as they balance precariously within full arms, all manner of dishes being prepared throughout the evening. Beer flows freely tonight of all nights, because all patrons know that they will spend all of tomorrow in quiet contemplation and appreciation of the Gods, who so mercifully allow them to exist here in this short, but meaningful, lifetime.

Ten years. Every ten years, this festival brings the people of Astora together - nay, all manner of folks from all over the world. 

An evening of revelry that pulls the wealthy from their tall towers and the poor from their gutters to celebrate as one. Rubbing shoulders with beggars and outcasts, the rich keep coins passing to the tavern owners, which in turn keeps the ale coming. Bards tell tales of the old wars, of times when dragons roamed the skies and the Gods tore their scales from their hides with bolts of lightning, and sing songs from the days of yore. By the end of their time here, every single one of the performers will be heavier in their coin purse, and probably twice as drunk. 

The night is still young and, as one particularly young man takes the stage (which consists of a couple of beer kegs and a few planks of wood) with his flute in hand, the patrons are already in deep speculation of the events that may or may not unfurl on the morrow. With smiles all around, it is almost impossible to be sad...and yet - just as the light jovial tune begins to filter through the numerous voices to fill the tavern - a grizzled old man spits on the floor and takes a swig from his tankard. He snarls with an almost toothless maw at the song that comes drifting from the bard. 

"Wha's 'e got to be 'appy about? It's just the Gods. Useless bastards they is." His voice is cracked from many rough years of living in the streets of Astora, of many an eve spent arguing and screaming his misfortune at anyone who will listen, hands scarred and body thin, "Never done us a lick of good I tells ye."

For once, it seems he has an audience that is not interested in the stage, and he finds himself on the end of a response from one of the landed gentry - a noble wearing fine articles of clothing and displaying his wealth proudly - who has probably had more than enough to drink by this point. "What are you talking about, old man? The Gods granted us this beautiful city and the riches that come with it! We are a noble nation of knights and glory! Tomorrow we shall pay our respects to them in the flesh and offer them tribute!"

"Bah!" The old man spits again, this time leaning to one side as a member of the bar staff starts to clean up his now empty drinking vessel, wiping the swill that has dripped upon the table with the corner of an apron. "They come here ev'ry ten years for their tribute. If they's so Godly, why do they grace us with their physical presence? Surely Gods got something better to do than come an' see their little maggots in their polished cages?"

This is hardly the conversation that the gentleman was after, but it is the one he's gotten himself into, and he is somewhat determined to make the old man see reason. Nudging his chair closer, grabbing the attention of the young glass collector, he continues to argue his points. "The Gods need to always reassure us of their presence! That way we don't lose faith! Surely you know this! There are certainly a lot of clerics who would argue with you about that! Faith drives our miracles after all." 

"Bah! All old. Never see the young ones into the old god worship. Not these days." As he speaks, the old man spills more booze from one of the trays of alcohol that are being carried by the staff - knocking it with a hand as he gestures - and grabs the glass collector's arm as he attempts to relieve the other of several empty tankards, "Take the lad 'ere. Spendin' every evenin' servin' someone! I bet 'e got no faith in the old Gods, 'ave you, lad?"

Confidence seems to fill the richer male and he laughs and scoffs that such an absurd notion. "You're kidding, right? No young one has his head more in the clouds about the Gods than this one! Right, Solaire?"

Addressed by name, the young male frees his arm from the old man's grasp and seems to stare for what feels like a long time at the customer, his blue eyes looking as though they are so distant in their own thoughts. When he does reply, his voice is quiet, almost strained with balancing a tray full of clattering tankards, and constantly tidying up after the old man. 

"I believe in the old Gods." He murmurs slowly, almost like he is already thinking back on a distant memory, narrowly avoiding the old man's gnarled hand as it swipes for him again. His expression seems like it is one of a dreamer. Lost. Far away. "They sometimes choose a knight when they visit. Can you imagine that? Becoming a knight for the Gods?"

A young man in his late twenties, Solaire seems to stand out as one who still holds onto hope, his voice aching with longing for what could be if he were to gain the favour of the Gods. His eyes shine brightly, glittering with joy, as he thinks about the morrow. When the Gods themselves will walk the streets of Astora. As he maneuvers around the two busily talking men, he thinks idly of the last time he witnessed the Gods, and feels his heart swell with yearning. He remembers Lord Gwyn and how his impressive height towered above all as he strode confidently through the city. The bright ethereal glow of his aura, armour glittering as it caught the light that shone bright from his very being, eyes ablaze as they scanned the crowds. He can certainly picture the children that follow: Guinevere, Gwendolyn, their youngest sister, and…

He pauses. 

There was another. One who walked behind Gwyn and ahead of the others. Standing proud and clad in leather armour, his white mane reminding Solaire of the pictures he'd seen in books of the ancient chimeras, a spear held out firmly in one hand. And yet...every time Solaire inquires about this being, his queries are met with scoffs and jeers. What man? Did he mean Gwendolyn? What is he talking about? Is he seeing men in his dreams now? Lord Gwyn has never had another child.

But Solaire swears upon his life that he saw another child. One who held his head high, as his war battered wraps trailed a little behind him, a crown of sovereignty upon his brow and a sword at his hip. He remembers those eyes that seemed to remind him of the colour of lightning flashing in the sky; the eyes that glanced in his direction and the smile that seemed to dance across his vision. Directed towards him. Almost like he had been chosen in that one moment when he squirmed in his mother's arms to get a better look. The sheer intensity of the emotions that had burned themselves into the boy's memory, so much so that Solaire found his dreams invaded with the sky, the sun, clouds, and lightning. 

He remembers those eyes long after the memory of his mother fades.

And yet...he's never been able to find anything since. Not one whisper of information in the slightest. True, he was but a babe at the time, and yes, it was twenty something years ago, but surely such a vivid picture in his mind is no mere figment? 

"Solaire!" Brought out of the swimming visions of his memory, the young bartender finds a pair of pale and gnarled fingers snapping in his face. Scarred from years of sword fighting and rough living, the hand that those digits belongs to retreats into the shadows and a pale face with a crooked grin makes itself known. Solaire finds three shapes lurking in the darkest corner of the bar. 

The Knights of Carim; visiting the land of Astora to partake in the festival. 

It's not an unusual sight. There are many who come here from distant lands just to witness the Gods in all their glory. The founder's festival has become more than just an Astoran tradition as the years have gone by. Not only that, but they know Solaire and he knows them. Very well.

"Ah. My apologies." Solaire bows his head lightly, catching the eyes of those sat at the table, "What can I do for you?"

One of the Knights, a particularly long nosed gentlemen with scars on his face that seem to make it look like he was broken apart and put back together wrong, bangs an empty tankard on the table. He spits onto the cobbled floor (seems to be a habit in this place). "Been shouting you, boy. Stop daydreaming and take our order, yeah?" 

A frown passes over the Astoran male's face for a second, and then is gone before it can be registered by the customers. The tray he was carrying is added to one of his associate's stacks of mugs, the glance that meets Solaire's own going from anger to understanding once it sees the table he's been called to. When these men ask for a drink they get it with haste. No questions asked. 

Wiping his hands on a swill-stained apron, Solaire shows the Knights his now empty hands, a gesture symbolic of his full attention - always a polite show in Carim, where holding literally anything could be taken as a threat - and smiles the most genuine smile he can muster, "Ah. Gentlemen! I apologise! I was off in my own world! I haven't seen you three since the flower festival last year! How are you? What can I get for you?"

Astora is a land that seems to pride itself on worship. Every season there's some festival or other. Any reason to celebrate and devoutly express gratitude to the Gods. Solaire remembers the flower festival fondly, for he still has every single pristine red rose that was offered to him (and one black one) pressed carefully between the pages of a book in his lodgings. He also remembers how these three Knights of Carim were here many years back on errands from their respective Ladyships, for it is only during the flower festival that the true beauty of Astora is presented to the public eye. Rare precious roses, the likes of which do not grow in Carim (or any other land for that matter), are a highly coveted prize for any highborn Lady. 

It was thanks to Solaire that these three gentlemen did not buy the black or red roses for their respective households. That would have been a symbolic and cultural mishap for the ages! Especially given that black roses are a sign of rejection and red symbolise only a deep sexual lust! Thanks to him (so they claimed), their gifts of the blue roses of Loyalty were well received, and since then the three have visited Astora every year for the past five for the flower festival. A familiar sight to Solaire for, as is the nature of a Knight of Carim, they only seem to trust him to serve them. 

They explained it once, something about a debt of trust, but honestly, Solaire was just thankful he had spared them the embarrassment of the rose mishap. 

"Aye. Been a long year." One of the Knights, a raven haired male with sharp and pointed features like those of a crow, pushes his tankard into Solaire's awaiting hand. They do not use the tankards from the bar. Such is the way of Carim. "Get us an ale, will ye, lad?"

The scarred knight does the same, his own tankard joining the other, before Solaire turns to the first Knight, the man with the crooked grin and pale face, to take his order. For once, he is handed a tankard with four shining silver coins within, and told that he needs to buy all three drinks plus an extra for himself. 

"I must protest!" Flustered, Solaire fumbles, trying to hand back the spare coin, but he is stopped when the pale man shoves all three drinking vessels firmly into his hands and puts a finger over his own skinny lips. 

"No. Not another word. We insist. Me and the lads were discussing it. You need to have a drink on us. You've helped us out over these past five years without even thinking to ask for payment other than what we give you for the drinks. In Carim, a debt must be paid, so think of it as a treat that we can give you once a year." 

Closing his mouth, suddenly feeling as though all the moisture has been sucked out of his body, the blonde bows and nods. "I understand. I'll be but a moment, gentlemen."

And then he retreats from the table, making a beeline to the bar, where his associate - the one he had offloaded his tray on before - waits for him. He watches as Solaire pulls an empty tankard from beneath the bar and starts to pour the drinks from one of the kegs. 

"Y'alright, lad?" Solaire is offered a sardonic smile, the other resting his chin on a hand as he leans against the bar. "You're as white as a sheet. Carimians taking a fancy to you again are they?"

Hands working quickly, ale being poured hastily from kegs, Solaire takes a moment to let out a long sigh of exasperation. From the look on his face, it is obvious that the blonde is shaken, his eyebrows knit in terror. 

"They...ah...they want me to have a drink with them. What exactly do I say to that?" Halting, Solaire's voice reflects some of his inner panic, "I can't drink whilst the tavern is this full! Boss will have my hide!"

His associate laughs softly, still leaning casually, "Oh come on. You're overthinking it. We've all treated ourselves to a drink or two on shift. Stop working yourself so hard."

"I know but…" Solaire is cut off as a finger places itself on his lips. 

Long nails scratch endearingly at his blonde locks, as he is lightly bumped out of the way by a stout, stocky woman with fiery red hair and green eyes that seem to glitter with mischief. Hilde. The owner of the tavern. A woman with arms like a steel trap and muscles that add to her vice-like grip. One who has even the most aggressive of drunks fleeing in terror from just a few strong words.

Also a woman whom Solaire trusts unconditionally; from the day she pulled him - scruffy, starved, half-dead - from the streets. 

Pushing a flagon of ale onto Solaire's already full tray, Hilde lightly pushes her startled worker forwards and lightly smacks his backside with a strong palm. "Go enjoy yourself, laddy. Ye worked so hard. I've never seen ye even stop for a break since ye started tae work fer me. Go have a drink."

Solaire opens his mouth to protest, but there is hardly anything he can do when he finds himself at the table with the three Knights of Carim once more. Trying to stop his hands from trembling, he empties his tray of drinks and stands before the trio, composing himself enough to nod towards his own pint.

They smile - crooked and utterly wicked looking, but somehow wholly accepting and inviting to Solaire and Solaire only - and raise their ale. "To your health and us all living another day."

Drinking down the thick alcohol, Solaire empties his tankard with haste, gasping out loud when he is finished. It's not that he isn't used to it. No. There have been many raucous nights spent completely blind staggering drunk before now. Solaire is certainly not a lightweight at drinking either. 

As the ale vanishes without ceremony into his throat, the Carim Knights laugh as though amused at his hearty chug. It's not that he is scared of these men either. They make him nervous, yes, but so do any men who come into the bar dressed in full armour and carrying weapons. The urgency comes from his sense of duty and need to get back to his serving. That and the fact that the Knights are gazing at him with expressions that seem to imply that the Astoran male has signed his soul away by agreeing to this toast.

Once the vessel is empty, Solaire slams it onto the tray with an air of finality, forcing a smile onto his face.

"And to your health as well!" He grins widely, before promptly turning and vanishing into the crowds of the bar, hiding his nervousness as he returns to Hilde and his other colleague. 

Said colleague laughs at how pale Solaire looks from just having accepted a drink whilst on duty. "You look like a ghost. Is the idea of slacking off even for a second one that terrifies you?"

The blonde huffs, a little embarrassed, "That and the idea of drinking with the Knights of Carim. I feel like I've just been pulled onto a deal with them. And you! (He points an accusing finger at Hilde.) You let this happen to me!"

The owner of the tavern laughs loudly and claps Solaire on the back with the force of ten men. "Ah quit yer whinin'. Get back tae servin'. Ye needed the pint! Now if ye got breath to complain, ye got breath to serve!"

Solaire sighs in an over dramatic manner and goes back to resume serving at the tavern. There's no questioning the intention of Hilde.


	2. Weight in Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solaire finds out what it means to be worth your weight in gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:
> 
> Mentions of selling people in this chapter. Some particularly foul and derogatory language from two of the characters.
> 
> Might want to skip to the notes at the end if you do not wish to read such.

The night draws on.

By this time, people are almost blind drunk and fights are not uncommon as feisty drunkards try to throw their weight around. The tavern has no guard of which to speak of, for they cannot afford to keep one, and yet the bar brawls are definitely kept to a minimum because Hilde has one ace up her sleeve…

Solaire. 

Despite his mild temperament and his almost shy nature when dealing with the Knights of Carim, the blonde trains every day by lifting heavy kegs and doing everything that Hilde asks of him during the day. Sweeping, mopping, refilling, moving tables and chairs, carrying water: practically every heavy lifting job she has to offer! He's strong. Enough so that the tavern doesn't have to pay to have security wandering around at all hours. With just a few motions, every person who seems intent on making a scene is sent flying into the muck-filled streets, face first. 

After a few particularly rough scraps, Solaire returns to the bar and dabs his apron to his nose, wondering if there is blood welling there. His colleague is there as usual, checking him over as Hilde rings the bell to signal that the last orders are being taken. "C'mere. Let's see."

Ever the compliant one, Solaire allows his fellow worker to inspect the damage. He's even more surprised when the other male kisses his nose lightly, nary a blood spot to be seen, "Ah don't worry. Your handsome face is fine."

Laughing, Solaire brushes off the kiss as horse play, for it is not unusual in Astora. As a culture, they are very close to their companions and those they work alongside. Camaraderie is simply shown in different ways! He rubs at his nose and sighs as he picks up a tray to begin glass collecting. The knights of Carim have been and gone, and they have left a hefty tip on the table for Solaire. He's almost surprised it is still there rather than in someone else's pocket!

Despite the occasional brawl, the bar is somewhat quieter now, and the blonde is able to collect glasses and clean tables with relative ease. A few tables are already being placed to the side as a clear indicator that the place is close to closing so that it can be cleaned in time for the festival tomorrow. Naturally, Solaire knows he'll be the one doing all the cleaning, so he's intent on tidying up as he goes. 

"Hey. How much for the blonde?" As he returns to the bar, a conversation catches his attention. Not one he has ever heard before. 

Arthur (his work colleague) pulls him to one side in an almost conspiratory manner and whispers into his ear. "Hey, Solaire. I wouldn't go over there right now. That guy has apparently been eying you all night. He's some noble. Throwing some serious gold on the table. Better stay out of it."

Looking up, the blonde gives the man a once-over and hums at the familiar features. It was someone he'd not given much thought to, a noble from house Devinn, but who had stopped Solaire for a lengthy conversation earlier in the night. There hadn't been anything said that would have given Solaire the impression that he was in any danger, or was indeed a target of desire for this gentleman, but now it seems that all that talk had hidden intentions behind it. 

There's a stack of gold on the bar, and with each refusal from Hilde, the pile keeps growing. The man looks angry - far from the almost sickly sweet gentleman that struck up conversation with Solaire mere hours earlier. Gesturing madly, with three others from his house close by to make sure that no one interferes, the noble is motioning towards Solaire like he is the prized bull at a farm auction. 

"Eight hundred! Surely a dive like this would only see this much money in five years? Eight hundred for a night. We won't hurt him beyond repair!" The violence and aggression with which he's talking is shocking. Every muscle tenses in Solaire's body, as it always does when he senses trouble, and yet Arthur holds him back. There's an almost pleading look to his eyes. 

'Don't.' It begs him, 'You'll only make it worse.'

Hands grip his arm desperately, urging him with every fibre of their being to just stay put, and yet knowing that they can do nothing should Solaire decide to just go. Clenching his jaw, the blonde manages to hold himself back as more coins are dropped down on the bar. 

"A thousand! You don't understand! He's perfect! Surely you can't ask for more than this?" Barely looking down at the gold, Hilde seems to be steeling her resolve, arms folded. 

"We're not interested." She spits out, "Solaire isn't for sale. You think this is a brothel? You want a quick fuck, go across the street! Plenty'a young men out there willing to suck cock for gold. But not mine!"

Even Solaire winces at that. It is not often that Hilde speaks ill of the brothels, for the neighbouring bars and hostels are almost a close knit family, but her anger is rising and her choice of words are becoming less thought out and more...aggressive. 

The noble turns to Solaire, his eyes flashing with determination, "Solaire? Is that his name? Yes! You! Solaire! How about it? Surely you can see how you can help this tavern to succeed? Truly such golden hair and blue eyes are a blessing from the Gods themselves!"

This takes Solaire aback a little. He can barely find the words, "I…"

There's a truth that no one in the tavern had accepted about Solaire. The Astoran royalty and the church were full of men and women with blonde hair and blue eyes. Down here, in the slums, Solaire was a rare sight indeed. Due to the way the poorer districts worked, it was never mentioned. As far as they were concerned, everyone here was going through the same struggle, walking the same path. They were all the same. 

And yet…

It couldn't be denied. Solaire stood out like a diamond in the rough. A beacon in the dark. Always smiling. Always dreaming. Always… bringing such warmth and light in these dark times. 

No one wanted to ever even suggest that he didn't belong here; that he should go away to the temples and become a Knight or a Cleric. The implication was always there from the nobles who visited though. 

This man was just the most vocal about it. 

Before Solaire can begin to splutter an excuse, Hilde is there again, pushing him aside and putting herself between the nobles and he. Fierce, unwavering, solid like a rock. Curling her lip back as though she were a dog about to rip this unfortunate man's throat out. Even his associates dare not to get too close, but alas, this man is either very drunk or very stupid. 

"One thousand five hundred. You can't deny that this is worth a hundred whores out there!" The bag clatters noisily to the bar, spreading gold coins like spilt ale across the surface. Even Arthur looks tempted by that, for his hands slip from Solaire's arm somewhat, eyes eating up the sight like a delicious meal. 

Staring levelly at the man before her, Hilde thrusts her entire stout weight forwards and huffs with exasperation. It seems like her last straw has just well and truly snapped. Grabbing a tray from the bar, she gestures with it like it is both the most protective armour and the most deadly weapon. 

In her hands, it probably is.

"You want a hundred whores, go buy 'em! You slimy bastard! Do ye think ye can put a price on a boy who is like me own son? Do ye? Ye whoreson! Wretch! If ye don't get out of my face and take ye damn coins with ye, I will wrap this tray over your head so hard - mark my words - ye'll be fuckin' buried in it!" The tavern owner's rage explodes. More fiery than the demons of Izalith itself. 

This is a woman whom Solaire sees as his second mother. Even when he could no longer remember the arms that carried him when he were but a babe, he can remember the strong hands that soothed his fevers and chased away his nightmares. Long before the days he dreamed of thunder and sunlight. Despite the rough way in which she holds herself, Solaire only sees gold as truly valuable when he thinks of her and her unwavering heart. 

The outburst is enough. 

Hurriedly collecting coins and paying off a tab, the nobles of House Devinn turn and flee into the night air, leaving behind only the sour taste of the conversation. It is then that Arthur frees Solaire's arm completely and both young men stand either side of Hilde. 

She is still breathing hard and trying to contain her urge to collapse. Arms trembling. Fists clenched tight. Jaw stiff from the way her teeth have clamped together. 

There is a visible flinch - as though she was close to losing herself completely - when Solaire pats her shoulder.

"Hilde…" His voice is soft, concerned, and she relaxes when she hears it. Solaire's face is creased in confusion. There is a visible conflict within his mind, "Why...why didn't you just agree? I mean...if it's for that much...think of how rich you'd be?"

Solaire doesn't say it, but the implication weighs heavy like lead.

"And that's exactly why I refused." Calmer now, Hilde turns and places a hand on the other's own shoulder, "Ye don't put a price on family. Remember that.Ye are worth more than what some noble puts down on a bar. Anyone can see that. Don't...don't throw your body away so easily. Not like that. So some prick can use ye tae get his end away for a night. No. Not like that."

It is those words that stick in Solaire's mind as he starts the evening tidy that night. Long after the bar is closed, he is still there, starting the preparation for the morrow.

Neither he nor Arthur speak on what transpired that evening, but the silence between them is almost a thousand words. Both men clean without even a murmur. It isn't until Arthur comes back in from tossing out the dirty water that Solaire even hears another voice for a good few hours. 

"How are things looking? Are we nearly done?" Arthur is filthy, covered in sweat and grease and Gods knows what from scrubbing the floors. 

Solaire himself wishes he could wash off the grime covering his own frame."Ah. Almost. I just need to empty two more buckets of water once I've scrubbed the last few tables and then we should be done. I think the kitchen was cleaned a while ago by Hilde and Barron."

Resting against the almost spotless bar, Arthur sighs, "Well. You do that then. And I look forward to tomorrow when we can wash this off! You know Hilde always lets us go to the bath house on the morning of a festival."

Smiling, Solaire nods, "I look forward to it. Until then."

With that Arthur takes his leave and heads upstairs whilst Solaire finishes off the cleaning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary:  
> A rich noble tries to buy Solaire.  
> Hilde is having none of it.  
> She cusses the guy out until he leaves.  
> Solaire and Arthur tidy the bar in the evening.


	3. Light in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night, Solaire dreams of sunlight...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING:
> 
> MENTIONS OF: rape, violence, vomiting, blood, and bone breaking.
> 
> This is the chapter that gives the story its warning. Skip to the end to find out what happens in summary.

Without a thought to the time, alone in the tavern whilst his fellow workers slumber in the chambers above, Solaire finishes the cleaning at a leisurely pace. It is when he is alone that he often thinks back on the past, reminds himself of what brought him here, and idly dreams of sunlight. 

Astora is a sun-kissed land whose architecture seems to stretch towards the sky, like every sharp pointed roof is reaching up with an intention to reach the very Gods themselves. The very top steeples of the many churches in the upper parts of the city are bleached white, noble houses flanking them as though there is a hierarchy of buildings that goes down in size the further away from the centre they are. Shadowed by these larger structures, the slums are almost perpetually bathed in darkness, as though the sunlight does not bless these seedier and poorer areas. 

Sometimes, when he is free from his labor, Solaire likes to walk these white streets and feel the warmth of those beautiful incandescent rays upon his work-worn skin. His blonde hair seems to shine in those areas of town, not looking out of place amongst the Astoran nobles were it not for his tattered clothes and calloused hands. 

Working alone now, away from the heat and the light, the evening's air making the tavern seem so cold and uninviting, Solaire almost dreams about the past. Scattered memories of a mother killed long ago; of pain and living on the streets as a child; of Hilde and her harsh but fair attitude to life; of hours spent training his body to be able to lift and work solidly for hours without rest: he has not had the best life, but he is thankful for every single shard of broken thought within his mind. If anything, this life has taught him to be gentle, to be kind, caring, simply because no one else is. 

Hopeful. 

He knows he has thought about giving up so many times before. It could be so easy to slip into the dark veil of sadness and never return - to become as bitter as those around him - and he almost has were it not for one single image that seems to flash brightly before him whenever his mind dares stray: 

Those eyes of lightning and the searing heat of the sunlight.

He pulls himself back to reality before he can dream any further, aware that the back door to the tavern is still open and he has water to pour down the drain, gathering both wooden buckets in his hands with ease. Stepping out into the chilly night air, Solaire observes his heated breath as mist before him, soft as he completes his task. 

His mind is drifting again like the water swirling into the gutter in front of him when he suddenly becomes aware of something else. Another sensation that only spreads across his body the more he tries to focus on it. 

It is then that he finds his vision swimming, the street beneath him suddenly so close to his nose, both hands splayed out in front of him to hold his body steady. Pain darts across his vision, a blood red sheen starting to replace the hues of black and grey of the darkness, his entire body feeling like it is on fire. The back of his head hurts; in fact, he is sure that he can feel a sickening wetness starting to seep through his hair. That wound alone is almost enough to cripple him. Unable to think; unable to focus. 

Attempting to stand, Solaire finds that his breath is cut off suddenly by a large stave slamming into his stomach, mouth opening but no sound coming out. Gasping. Winded. He doubles over once more, fighting back the urge to vomit, as a hand grips his tied back hair cruelly. 

There are voices around him, but they sound like they are distant, almost like he is underwater and they are above the surface. Drowning in pain. 

And yet something within him wills him to keep getting back up. Keep fighting. 

One of his hands reaches out to the side of him, in the direction where he feels the presence of another (possibly the one clutching his ponytail, but he's really not sure as his vision is still dazed), and he clenches a fist and strikes out. Hard. A sickening crunch followed by the freeing of his hair tells him that faith guides his strike home. 

Despite his pain, and the slight redness dancing across his vision like spots of wet blood, he shakily rises to his feet and draws in a cold deep breath. 

Air comes to him with a sensation that makes him feel like his lungs are about to burst. Through the bloodied waterfall in front of his eyes, he searches, seeing dark shapes moving and darting about. 

Thieves? Thugs? Someone trying to rob the tavern?

He's not sure. 

As his hearing manages to break through the surface of the water and he picks up on the sound of someone hissing in a voice that is riddled with pain: "Fucking get him before someone finds us."

And then they're on him again, one striking at his knee from behind, buckling it forwards as he staggers. He can't react in time. This is no bar room brawl or drunken fight; this is a calculated and well planned attack. For all of Solaire's muscle and brawn, he is unable to fight back in an effective manner. There are four shapes surrounding him with blunt clubs and long sticks to cause pain, but not to kill. 

As his footing gives way, something flies towards his face and he feels something physically snap, one of his back teeth clattering to the floor as it breaks loose. Before he can even process this, his nose explodes in blood, and he collapses to his knees. 

Bone seems to clog his throat, more strikes hitting his arms, his back, his chest, his stomach…

Solaire falls. 

It's too much. He can't see properly, he's bleeding, and there is a sickness in his stomach and bile burning the back of his throat. These shapes, whether male or female, fight like demons. Practically tearing him apart. Attacking every weak spot. 

Every time he tries to stand - foolish man that he is - he is knocked down twice as hard. Whenever his mouth opens to cry for help, it is closed by either a sharp strike to his neck or his stomach. They do not allow him any time to recover. 

Even stranger still, aside from that first hiss from before, this is all being done in relative silence. There are sounds from the streets around that suggest drunkards are wandering back to their homes, loud singing from a few neighbouring bars that have yet to kick out their noisy patrons, but there is no one around to hear the violent beating of one man in a back alley where he has always felt safe before. These shapes do not shout or give instruction to each other, but they certainly attack in a practiced and calculated way, which makes Solaire more nervous than if this was just a one in a hundred random attacks. 

Just when the blonde male thinks he's been allowed to fall down six times and get up seven, he feels his kneecap explode in pain from the front and suddenly loses all feeling in his leg besides a steadily rising agony. He can't even call out or scream as he stumbles forwards on his good leg, taking one of the men down with him as his hands find purchase on a strip of clothing. 

There's a struggle as Solaire refuses to let go and this man tries to pry off those blood covered fingers. Eventually, the weight of the young bar tender goes against him and he hears the sound of cloth ripping as he tumbles downwards. Hard. 

Hitting the ground yet again, Solaire coughs up more blood and looks to his hand, seeing a piece of torn green cloth dangling from it. Strange, he thinks, mind clouded by the sheer pain, but he seems to recognise a part of the golden embroidery he sees there. The head of a serpent eating its own tail. How unusual. 

He could have sworn that this symbol was that of house Dev...oh.

Realisation hits harder than any club or staff. Solaire feels the bottom fall out of his stomach, suddenly retching and feeling the contents of his meagre lunch emptied to the floor, pain flooding his vision. 

He can't move. One of his knees is now broken, his right arm is twisted, and he is finally running out of stamina. Tears brim at the corners of his eyes, frustrated that he was unable to defend himself from these thuggish nobles, before falling down his cheeks. Blood pours from where his skin has split wide open with several well-timed strikes. He can barely see now as the darkness closes in on him. 

Silence. 

And then the sounds of panting, heavy breathing, as the people around him finally give in to their own loss of energy. They begin to speak in hushed tones. 

"Everyone alright?"

"I think he broke my nose."

"We've all taken some wounds. None more than he did though."

Shuffling, the group gathers themselves, two pairs of strong arms encircling Solaire's own shoulders and biceps. He is lifted - with effort - and his weight hangs as though he is already dead between them. Coin clinks and clatters inside a thick pouch as Solaire becomes aware of a broken conversation. 

"Hurry up and - "

" - lucky no one heard - "

"- so that's two thousand gold. As promised..." 

And then he feels another wave of nausea hit him as he recognises Arthur's voice sounding from within the doorway of the back entrance to the tavern. "Much appreciated. I'm glad we could come to an agreement."

One of the men laughs, bitterly but quietly, "We knew one of you would see sense when Mi'lord started throwing the coin down. You're a smart lad."

There's a pause, and Solaire wonders briefly what could be occurring, before Arthur says in a resigned tone, "...Just get him out of here. I can't bear to look at him."

And the door closes. 

Light gone.

Only the sound of the night air and the sensation of being dragged down the dark alleyways of the slums. 

At one point, Solaire feels a sack being placed over his head, smelling his own blood, sweat, and bile festering around him. It somehow makes him wonder if this is what it is like to die? To feel pain and agony ripping through your entire body, the foul stench of death lingering on your corpse, blackness surrounding you in a suffocating heat. It's almost a pointless act (Solaire tells himself) to blindfold him. How could he even begin to imagine that he'd escape from this now?

After an eternity of being dragged over bumpy cobbles, the sheer agony of his leg reminding him every so often that he is indeed still alive, the floor seems to smooth out somewhat. Solaire surmises that he must have been carried all the way to the richer areas of Astora for he has seen those smooth pale stones of the upper class before on his many walks. Every so often, he hears the men worrying about whether they have gone too far with beating him, or an idle conversation regarding the fun they are going to have with him once their Lord has finished. At one point, he manages to piece together the fact that they have actually bought him from Arthur and that there is a future ahead of him where he will not be returning to the tavern. 

Even with all of Hilde's powers of intimidation, he knows that once they get him inside the walls of their abode, he will not be returning. 

This thought brings bitter tears to his eyes once more, but also brings a last desperate surge of energy as he lifts his head and arches his back up with all the strength he can muster, feeling the back of his skull connect hard with another man's face. Surprised, alarmed, he is dropped to the floor as the sound of one of the men dropping to the floor is heard. 

Sack still over his head, leg screaming in agony, Solaire reaches out with his hands and finds the edge of a stone slab beneath his fingertips. Trembling, he pulls himself forwards, his good leg and his arms serving him well in crawling across the ground. Teeth grit, he drags his own body away from the cursing and the pained growls, and only stops when a boot stamps down on his broken kneecap. Hard. 

He's not sure when he started crying - probably around the same time they resumed their beating of his broken and abused body - but the tears cannot be held back any longer. Not only that, but he feels his woolen trousers being pulled down around his ankles, someone pulling themselves up behind him. Pinned with one man on each limb, with a fifth now unbuckling his belt and moving to grip his hips with one hand. 

"Fucking whore." A voice spits, clearly pained, as warm flesh presses against Solaire's own, "I don't give a damn if Mi'lord wanted you first. I'm going to make sure that you are aware of how much of a useless dog you are. I'll break this pretty little body of yours in first before I - "

There's nothing else to that sentence save a gurgling noise as Solaire feels the grip on him slacken somewhat. The other men make noises that can only be described as horror and sheer terror. 

Behind him, the body of the man who had intended to have his way with him slumps to the side, no longer making any noise. There are some sounds that Solaire can only attribute to being those of steel slicing through flesh. Other sounds, he just cannot fathom, but he knows this much: whomever kidnapped him from the tavern is no longer of this earth. 

He hears another man's desperate cry of "Please don't! I never touched him! I never touched hi-ackk!" and then silence once more. 

Followed by footsteps. Soft. Cat-like. Not covered by boots, but sounding like they are definitely covered with some fabric. Getting closer...closer…closer...and then…

Solaire dreams of sunlight. 

He dreams of a mane of white hair. An ethereal glow. An old god of War whose name has been lost to the ages. 

His body feels warm, even in these cold streets at night, and the pain feels like it is but a mere distant memory. In fact: was it ever there at all? Still so tired, but no longer in pain, Solaire reaches out towards the light - wondering idly if this could truly be death - and feels a hand grasping his own. 

There is a voice like the sound of water trickling through a forest, like a blade slicing through the air, like the warmth of the sunlight as it dances its rays across the ground, "You're safe. Don't cry. You're safe."

Solaire trusts this voice with a love that seems to him to be unconditional. Subconsciously submitting to a will that is far greater than any he can fathom. Even now, as his body feels so numb, and yet almost blistering hot, there is never a sense that he is in any danger. 

Continuing, the voice is soft as it seems to carry Solaire along on a river of gold, "You fought well. Never giving up. I could see that strength within you. I had to see it with mine own eyes, little one, had to see you brought to the edge of your abilities. You crawled. When given no other option, you were willing to crawl when you could no longer walk."

Almost feeling like his heart is about to burst, Solaire opens his mouth to respond, but the words fail him. That almost omnipresent voice fills his mind, "Don't try to talk. Save your strength. You'll need it."

There's a sound that could be the victory cry on a battle field, or a gentle breeze through a grassy field, before Solaire realises that this is neither. The voice is laughing. Like it can understand his thoughts and perceive his questions, the voice laughs. "For when you walk the path of a Knight of Sunlight. Seek thine own sun. In times of need, look to thy inner light and find thy strength, Solaire of Astora. Adherent to the Lord of Light."

Before Solaire can ponder these words, he feels a great weariness wash over him, and then his sunlight is swallowed by the darkness of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary:  
> Solaire goes out to empty the water buckets and finds himself attacked by a group of men.  
> They beat him up. Badly.  
> They drag him away after paying Arthur of the tavern - who set Solaire up to be sold.  
> Solaire keeps fighting.  
> Just as the men are about to do something even worse to Solaire, they are all violently killed and Solaire hears a voice that tells him to become a knight and seek his own sun. He feels like his wounds are no longer there and then faints.


	4. The Golden Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When morning breaks, Solaire half expects to wake up in the gutter, still bloodied and injured, but the reality is far stranger than that. 

When morning breaks, Solaire half expects to wake up in the gutter, still bloodied and injured, but the reality is far stranger than that. 

His eyes crack open to see the familiar worn down roof of the tavern above him. In fact, as he jolts upright, breathing hard and somewhat startled by the familiar vision, he realises that he is no longer in pain either. His head feels fine, his body clean and free of blood, and there are no signs of the scrapes and broken nails that he was sure he had obtained when he had crawled across the floor. All he can register is how good he feels; free from that agony!

Not only that, but he is stark naked - which is not wholly unusual (he often sleeps thus) by itself. The fact that he remembers being dressed the night before is what gives him reason to ponder on such. 

Who undressed him?

He casts his cautionary and curious gaze around the room and finds it to all look the same as he remembers it. Were not for the energy within him, he would assume that he was still asleep. Even more evidence to the contrary, the stiffness he feels in his back and shoulders from lying on the harsh box he calls a bed reminds him that he is most certainly not in the realm of dreams. 

Shifting within the heavy wool blanket, Solaire glances down at the shape his legs make beneath the fabric and he feels his mouth go dry. One trembling hand reaches down to pull aside the layer that stands between himself and his knees. 

They must look terrible. Bloodied and mangled. What if he has to have one amputated? Surely he cannot feel anything because his wounded knee has already lost the sensation of the pain in it? Hesitating for so long, simply because the fear that wells up within him almost freezes his body to the core, and he cannot muster the strength to push past it. 

And then…

The blanket is off!

Instinctively, Solaire's eyes squeeze shut, not wanting to see the carnage that is his kneecap, and he has to take a few deep breaths to calm himself. Sweat drips down his brow. Since when was looking at a broken and twisted limb an effort for him? 

Bar brawls, street fights, executions by the church: he has seen them all! And yet...this horror when experienced by himself...is almost too much.

Inhaling and exhaling as though fighting for air, the blonde steels his resolve and cracks open his eyes. 

Both legs, well defined from his days of heavy lifting, covered in light hairs, sit before him. No blood. No scars - well, besides the few on his knees where he had fallen over as a child or been cut by a stray knife or broken chair leg. Unbroken. Unchanged from the last time he looked at them.

Nothing but the legs the Gods blessed him with. 

Solaire stares for a moment longer, eyes fixed on the sight, before he becomes aware that someone is calling his name. 

"Solaire! Get your lazy hide down here! Are you gonna sleep away the festival? We already have a few customers for the morning rush!" Relief floods the young man's heart when he hears that rough as nails voice bellowing up the tavern stairs. Hilde's screams are banshee-like in quality any other time, but today of all days that wail could be a heavenly chorus to him. Welcoming and normal. Just what he needed after a nightmare that vivid and disturbing. 

Sliding off the wooden crate, stretching his limbs and feeling his bones pop and crack in his spine, the blonde steps towards the small circular window in his room and cracks it open slightly. As he does, he notices that Arthur's own bed is empty, all of his usual belongings no longer present - as though he had simply vanished off the face of the earth. The scratchy woolen blanket is nowhere to be seen. Like he never existed. 

Honestly, Solaire is very conflicted about that idea, regardless of whether last night was a nightmare or no.

Outside, the slight breeze carries the scents of freshly cooked meats and several other delicacies towards the tavern, wafting the smells in an almost teasing manner. It is cooler this time of year and yet the sun shines brightly upon all of Astora. Even the slums are bathed in soft golden hues, giving reason to why this festival is held on today of all days, for it is entirely apt that today's sun catches every inch of the great land as it rises proud in the morning and sets gently in the evening.

Already, there are voices: some hurried, some hushed, some loud, some eager, but all sharing in the same anticipation of the arrival of the Gods to this great Capital City. 

Solaire knows how it works. The tavern will open for breakfast in the morning and then, following the strike of ten, all places of business will be closed for the day. Hilde will convince Solaire to actually take a rest and ensure that he heads to the bathhouse, coin in hand, ready to clean himself rather than a tavern. Normally he would make this journey with Arthur, but…

Turning from the window, the Astoran male gazes once more at the hollow empty space where his long time companion and fellow bar worker once resided, and feels an...alien and unusual bitterness well up within his chest. He's no stranger to anger, or even sadness, but this feeling makes him sick. Bites at his heart; clenches hard across his chest; blurs his vision.

Without even being aware of it, he clenches his fists tightly, presses dirty nails into skin roughened by work. Standing there as though consumed by this strange sensation. 

And yet...he does not feel as though it is hatred that guides his emotions at present. No. How could he possibly hate a man who was so desperate for a better life that it meant he would commit such heinous acts? 

Solaire knows that this feeling is more akin to disappointment than anything. 

"Solaire! Come on! Stop powdering that pretty face!" At the ever growing insistent tone from Hilde, the young man snaps himself out of his own head and starts to dress, taking a moment to appreciate that his clothes do not smell like blood or bile as he would have expected. 

For once the scent of his own sweat is actually comforting. Certainly there is the slight welling of excitement at the prospect of the bath he will take today, but for now this scent is familiar and safe and not-at-all like the frightening concoction of the humours that he could smell the night before. 

Now prepared, Solaire moves briskly from his room and enters the already quite packed tavern, stopping by the bar to acquire an apron. Hilde's hands are on her hips as she gives a 'humph' of acknowledgement upon his arrival. One hand gestures towards him with an empty tankard. "There he is! Finally! I was about to give ye up for dead! Lazy sod! Get tae work!"

Face flushed in embarrassment, Solaire scans the length of the tavern and cocks his head in confusion, "Isn't Arthur helping you? Where is he?"

"First thing I need you to do is hop behind the bar. That's been the busiest place around here this morning. I'll take the floor. Get this over and done with so I can get ye to the bathhouse at a respectable time." Either she is too busy to hear him, or is deliberately avoiding the question, for Hilde does not answer what he has asked. Instead, she seems more concerned with the patrons than her staff at the moment. Not wishing to push the matter further, Solaire rolls up his filthy tunic sleeves and grabs the nearest tankard. 

Within, Solaire decides that a silent grim acceptance of the absence of Arthur is actually better than having to face him right now.

Thankfully, the majority of the morning passes without incident, and the young Astoran is very content with his work. Through snippets of conversation, he overhears people's plans for the day, and happens to eavesdrop on a few nobles discussing their spending for the evening. Nothing particularly surprising. All in a good days work. 

The tavern is packed to the walls (Hilde would often claim that it's the fact she doesn't water down her alcohol as much as others do) and Solaire barely has a moment to breathe. Once the bell rings for the last orders before the festival preparations begin the activity starts to trickle down to a few people left in the bar. At his earliest convenience, Solaire manages to gulp down a tankard of ale, finally succumbing to the basic need to have a drink and break.

"Dids't thou sleep well?" The voice is jarring. Solaire nearly chokes. Trust someone to come up to the bar when he was taking a swig. Such happy coincidence is why he often insisted on not taking a break. It was always bound to happen. 

The startled bar worker turns hurridely, expecting to see one of the regulars grinning at him from a bar stool, instead finding his eyes meeting with ones of pure cold ice. 

And then all at once it seems as though time itself slows and stops.

The tavern is empty. 

No Hilde. No patrons. Nothing. Only Solaire and the man - no. The God sat in front of him. 

It's eerily quiet. There are no longer any sounds filtering in from outside. Even the animals appear to have gone silent. Creaks and groans from the wooden furniture seem cured. The only sound that manages to reach Solaire's senses is that of his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. 

Opening his mouth to speak, Solaire steps forwards, one hand reaching up as though to point, and finds his words leaving him almost ask quickly as they'd bubbled to the surface. 

White hair spills over strong shoulders, reminding Solaire of the gathering clouds before a storm; eyes like tempered steel stare levelly and calmly at the man behind the bar, promising safety and pain in equal measure; lengths of beautifully woven fabric cover sturdy leather armour. Finding himself devoid of thought - or words or reason or - Solaire closes his mouth once more and finds himself looking at a smile that dazzles like the sun. A voice that soothes like a salve applied to a burn, "You seem more than recovered. Good."

It takes Solaire a few moments before another sound is heard in the empty space around him. A hand that could easily crush a man's skull reaches out ever so delicately and places a single golden coin onto the wooden surface of the bar. Held in place for a moment as it is placed down with a hollow thunk before scraping towards him. It is hard to tell if the noise is real, or if it is the rushing of blood through Solaire's head that causes it, but that voice speaks again. "Ale."

Unable to process what exactly is happening, the blonde male dutifully collects the coin, finding it surprisingly cold despite having been in the palm of this impressive giant of a man, and shakily takes up a tankard. It's difficult to prevent his own hands (so small and frail in comparison) from trembling, but he manages to steady them long enough to pour a pint and cautiously slides it over to the other. 

There's a noise that could either be a sharp intake of breath from an unseen pain, or a short exhale of breath following a moment of mirth, and those eyes seem to calmly regard Solaire with...admiration? Humour? A combination of both?

"You are strong indeed. I have taken your words and yet you would still find motion in those limbs to serve me? What a fascinating young one." There's no denying the effect these words have. Solaire feels a swell of pride; one reminiscent of the first time he managed an evening alone at the tavern by himself. He remembers Hilde's face and how proud she looked, how joyful she was, that Solaire had done his duty well. 

It's a feeling that only comes from praise following truly hard work. A pride that is earned. He cannot bow - he's barely remaining standing - but that face and those eyes know that he is grateful. Such is that trust he feels emanating from this Godly being. 

Silence descends upon the tavern once more as Solaire's visitor reaches out and takes the tankard in hand. If not for the aura this giant emanates the sight could look almost comical. Truly he dwarfs everything within these walls. Swigging down the ale in one mouthful, the God sighs happily, almost as though he were drinking divine nectar, and then fixes Solaire with another stare. 

It occurs to the Astoran that he has said nothing to his visitor thus far, and opens his mouth once more, before finding that his lips quiver worse than his hands did moments earlier. In the end, he can not find his voice, and the nameless God sat at the bar offers him an expression of sympathy. 

"Such is my divine aura." The voice soothes away any fears and concerns, eases pains, and promises true glory in the face of all adversity. Every syllable affects both heart and mind. Even when speaking of idle matters, or imbibing in cheap booze, it seems to penetrate the very soul. "In mine own form I am able to control it better. I believe it is somewhat...concentrated in this body I sit in now. I do, however, appreciate that you are well within thine own senses to serve me. Such simple pleasures are not oft enjoyed."

There are rumours of the Gods eating food that is far greater in quality than anything anyone has ever tasted and drinking only the sweetest wine. People often murmur tall tales about nectar that would stop any mortal man's heart dead should they imbibe it. Fruits that would make one stronger than any dragon before it destroyed one's body completely. 

Solaire now believes those tales based entirely on the almost unbearable aura of the person in front of him for what else would such a God eat or drink?

As though the one-sided conversation is almost too much to bear, his trembling hands now gripping the bar behind him as though he means to bend the wood itself, Solaire opens his mouth once more. A sound that is reminiscent of a choke is heard, causing the giant's countenance to shift into something unreadable, before the Astoran throws his entire body weight into the act of speaking and bows his head. This momentary loss of sight of the Godly being brings with it new strength and Solaire hears a new sound split the air: his own voice. 

It comes out in a rush, with force that rivals his body's own energy, and takes the form of a tumbling cascade of hurried words, "Thank you for saving me, my lord!"

There is volume in that sentence and Solaire swears he hears it ring throughout the silent tavern for some time after it has been shouted. 

And then silence once more.

He can't move his gaze from the floor. Can't speak again. Can't stop shaking. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, hot stinging tears prick at his eyes, his palms feel clammy and wet. Still, he does not move, sure that the Lord before him will strike his head from his shoulders any second for his outburst. 

Waiting for a blade that does not come. 

Instead, once the initial shock has worn off, he hears another noise. It starts off as a sound like the rumbling of thunder. Deep. Distant. Rolling. Then, it becomes breathy, like the oncoming rain, trickling down the tavern walls. Eventually, it erupts into a cacophony, a roar, a lightning strike, a coruscation of sheer joy. 

The nameless God of War is laughing.

In fact, he does not stop laughing for some time. 

So much so that Solaire finds himself standing up straight once more from his bow, slowly glancing upwards. He is greeted with the sight of this enormous giant of a man almost falling off his stool, one hand clutching his stomach, the other gripping the bar as though for support. A face that was nigh unreadable beforehand is now creased into the unmistakable expression of happiness. 

And it continues on to the point that the God doubles over, before wiping away his tears of mirth on the fabric wrapped around his neck, adjusting himself on the stool once more. Shining brilliant eyes fix the startled human within their sight. There is no mistaking that wide smile. Humour shines through as this heavenly being pushes another coin towards Solaire.

Becoming aware that he has started to tremble once more, the Astoran finds his energy renewed and grabs the offered gold, already refilling the tankard. As he does this, he can hear his unnamed visitor starting to talk one more. 

"Thou art spirited! Most humans can barely make a sound in my presence, let alone shout at me with words of praise! Truly, I am pleased in mine own judgement!" There is a thoughtful quality to those words, almost as though the end of the sentence trails off somewhat, as though this heavenly being has grander plans in mind for Solaire.

"Dost thou remember what I said to you in that darkness?" 

The question catches Solaire off guard (not that he has let it down at all throughout this conversation). Both hands shake as though carrying the weight of those words, mouth opening again, sweat now cold against the back of his neck. Clenching his jaw tight, finding strength in the fact that his back is turned away from this dazzling presence, the blond manages to stammer out, "...S-suh-seek...m-mine...own s-s-ss-sun…"

A sudden noise splits the silence and shreds it like parchment. A horrendous thunderclap that causes the tankard to clatter to the floor, spilling its contents, and the terrified worker drops to his knees, fearing divine wrath. Once down there, he finds that it is incredibly hard to get back up again, and he has to shakily grip the side of the bar to steady his trembling legs as he hauls himself to his feet. 

No sign of attack. No swords or scorched wood or blood. 

Only laughter.

His nameless lord chuckles heartily and one hand rests on the bar where it had slammed down seconds before. Not a thunderclap (although certainly akin to one). Only a hand. One the size of a large dinner plate.

"Yes! Yes!" Solaire once more feels his heart thudding in his chest at the praise that trickles like scalding molten iron into the centre of his being, "For when you walk the path of a Knight of Sunlight: seek thine own sun! Truly thou art blessed! I have certainly made up my mind!"

That voice takes on a conspiratory tone, almost hushed, "Verily, when the sun is at its highest peak, you will no longer walk this path. I will make double sure of that.

For a moment, Solaire can only tremble, letting the gravity of those words sink down onto his shoulders. Then he manages to slowly begin the process of pouring another drink, willing his body to obey him, trying his hardest to keep his hands still. Fixed on the task at hand, the blonde attempts to feel for the barrel and tap, fumbling and almost clumsy. It takes a few moments. He listens to the soft laughter that reminds him of his guest's presence. 

Replaying what has been said to him over and over in his head. 

A new drink in hand, Solaire hurriedly turns, almost as though emboldened by these words…and stares straight into Hilde's disappointed eyes as she stands with her hands on her hips. The spilled drink seeps into the floorboards beneath their feet. No sign of the nameless visitor. Not one hint that he has even been there in the first place. 

Only Hilde's terrifying expression. 

"When ye be finished with yer daydreamin', lad, ye should stop gawkin' and start cleanin'! I'll be takin' the next bloody one out of yer pay!" A hand shoots up to lightly clap Solaire about the head. Chastising. 

Blinking, sure that what he had seen and heard was not, in fact, an illusion, Solaire shakes his head and tries to cater to the remaining handful of customers. Despite the almost scarce number of patrons, serving feels like it is somewhat harder on the body than it was before, like his stomach is lined with lead. Heavy. Weighing him down. Grounding him. 

Far from the sheer elation he felt before in the presence of that beautifully terrifying diety.

When the time comes, he scoops up the meagre allowance from Hilde and goes to tuck the shining golden coins in his pouch. 

They click against two coins that are already in there. 

Withdrawing his hand once more, the startled Astoran opens his hand, expecting to see more gold added to his total, and then pauses. 

Standing out amongst the usual tender are two beautifully exotic coins. Bronze and gold. Beautifully etched and slightly larger than the others, they seem to carry a fair weight to them, and Solaire finds himself thumbing over the engraving on the front of them, feeling every ridge and rise in the metal. 

Two golden suns stare back at him. 


End file.
